Thirst
In the year of our Lord 1420, during one of the many plagues that rose from the swamps and fed its appetite for the dead, a syphilitic fog slithered in from the swamps, crept like a stocking-footed thief, wound its way through the gutters, and city streets, nuzzled its face against the windowpane, sprung through a slender opening and intermingled its breath with that of the sleeping. Each breath taken was a step closer to life for the deadly fog and each breath out was a minim of life lost. When the last breath was long expired, the corpse cold in the tomb, and the crescent moon shadowed in clouds I would begin my work.
In time, I came to know more about the dead and dying than I did of life. Then, I believed there was little to say about the dead. The soul has either gone to heaven or hell and what remains is the shell: If the worms could claim the corpse–Why couldn’t I? Did I always have to be a leather-maker, working with the stinking skins reeking of decay and my hands red from the dyes? With a stench like that, would Maria, the pretty servant girl I loved since I was a boy, have me? Never! So I make my small fortune at night and take my pleasures in the evening by the dock.
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